


Subtle Clues and Context Cues

by galwednesday



Series: The Last to Know [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, BAMF Pepper Potts, Deferred shovel talks, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Mixed-media love notes, Mr. Cheddar is a treasure, Mr. Darcy cosplay, Not actually secret relationships, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Steve Rogers is a Giant Dork, Tony Stark Doesn't Have Middle Gears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-21
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-06-03 12:54:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6611365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galwednesday/pseuds/galwednesday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Cosplay,” Sam repeated. He and Steve were jogging through Central Park. Steve had just lapped him for a fourth time before slowing to match his pace, and the bastard didn’t even have the decency to sound winded. “As what?”</p><p>“You ever see the Pride and Prejudice movie, the really long one?”</p><p>“Dude. I have three sisters. It was required viewing.”</p><p>“I need a Mr. Darcy outfit.”</p><p>Sam slowed to a walk, holding one hand up in a time-out gesture until he caught his breath enough to form full sentences. “You’re going to cosplay as Mr. Darcy? The Colin Firth, look-how-wet-and-clinging-my-shirt-is Mr. Darcy?”</p><p>Steve looked down and shuffled his feet. It was amazing to watch over six feet of pure muscle somehow telegraph <em>bashful</em>. “Yeah. Tony’s birthday is coming up, and, well. It’s sort of an inside joke.”</p><p>(Five times everyone but Tony knew he was dating Steve, and one time Tony figured it out.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Subtle Clues and Context Cues

**Author's Note:**

> [Method Refinements](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6418909) had an itty bitty epilogue that exploded into this after people asked for the continuing adventures of Mr. Cheddar and Darcy!Steve. You beautiful enablers, you. It’s not necessary to read that one first, but some of the jokes carry over.
> 
> When I first posted this, I had mistakenly identified Hugh Grant as the BBC Mr. Darcy, instead of Colin Firth. WHOOPS (Sam's sisters would be SO ashamed of me). Thank you for your kind corrections!
> 
> EDIT: Now translated into Chinese by [faithyier](http://archiveofourown.org/users/faithyier)! You can [read the translation here](http://www.hailstony.com/thread-3240-1-1.html).

**1: Natasha**

Natasha figured it out first.

She had known when Steve and Tony first started having sex, of course. Neither of them was particularly subtle. In those first few months after the Battle of New York, it was normal for Steve and Tony to shout at each other for about twenty minutes before they settled down enough for the post-mission meal. It was like Clint retrieving his arrows, or Bruce scavenging for new pants: just part of the routine. The rest of the team left them to fight in privacy once it became clear they weren’t actually going to kill each other. It was easier on everyone’s eardrums, and besides, Tony had run out of really creative insults by week five. 

When they started emerging from their “fights” with rumpled clothes, flushed faces, and truly impressive constellations of hickies, it didn’t take a trained spy to put the pieces together.

All of the Avengers knew, even if Clint was the only one who regularly brought it up (usually to mock Tony’s sex hair). Tony would smirk and Steve would blush, and other than that, they acted like nothing was going on. Most days they didn’t even seem to like each other.

About six months after they first met, the pattern changed again. 

There had been another close call on a mission (giant armored frogs spawning in Lake Michigan after an experiment gone wrong--what was it with mad scientists and their collective obsession with oversized amphibians?). Tony had disregarded orders and put himself in danger to cut the risk to the rest of the team, and the post-battle debrief was ending the usual way: with Steve yelling at Tony about reckless endangerment while Tony insisted he’d done the right thing.

But this time, although the words were the same, the body language was completely different. Natasha pretended to examine a crater in the street while cataloging Steve and Tony’s behavior, comparing it to their past fights.

Instead of Steve standing with fists clenched at his sides, staring daggers at Tony’s undersuit like he could develop x-ray vision if he just tried hard enough, he was running his hands over Tony, obviously checking for injuries. Astonishingly, Tony wasn’t pushing him away--he was arguing the whole time that it wasn’t necessary, that he was  _ fine_, Captain Worrywort, but he didn’t move away from Steve, and even obligingly lifted his arms so Steve could check his sides. After Steve finished, his hands ghosting over Tony’s hips one last time before dropping away, Tony reached out to run his own hands over Steve’s shoulders like he was soothing a skittish horse.

“It was the right call,” Tony said, about three times quieter than he would have said the exact same words last week.

“I know,” Steve said, just as quietly, and that was that. The argument was over. 

The post-mission team meal (pizza, as always when it was Clint’s turn to choose) had a serious increase in across-the-table eye-fucking whenever Tony and Steve looked at each other, but other than that, it was like the fight had never happened. No strained silences, no rigid jaws, no slipping away to have hasty, furious sex in a supply closet.

When they got back to the tower, Steve and Tony disappeared into the communal elevator together, clearly both going to Steve’s floor. Natasha watched them bump shoulders just before the doors closed, then turned decisively to Clint. 

“They’re dating.” 

“Holy shit,” Clint said. He stared, wide-eyed, at the closed elevator doors. “Really?”

“Definitely.”

“Have they figured it out yet?”

“Definitely not.”

“Holy shit,” Clint repeated. He was grinning. “This is going to be a disaster.”

“An utter train wreck,” Natasha agreed, and permitted herself the luxury of a small smile. 

The next morning, Natasha slipped into Steve’s apartment just before dawn. She left a box of Steve’s favorite donuts (half Boston cream pie, half plain with rainbow sprinkles) and a pot of Tony’s favorite coffee (black, thick, and strong enough to kill a man) in the kitchen for them to discover when they woke up. 

That afternoon, Clint shimmied into the ducts above Tony’s workshop. He had swapped out his normal arsenal for a Nerf gun with rubber suction-cup darts (he had made the red, heart-shaped fletching himself). Clint nailed Steve right over his heart and Tony dead center between the eyes before Tony sent a drone into the vents to chase him off.

For Clint and Natasha, this was the equivalent of shouting “mazel tov!” and toasting the happy couple. They had officially given Tony and Steve their blessing. It wasn’t their fault if their teammates didn’t speak emotionally-repressed spy.

And if they started a two-person betting pool on when Tony and Steve would figure it out for themselves, well, even secret agents needed hobbies.

  


**2: Pepper**

“Let me get this straight.” Pepper kicked off her shoes, leaned back in her ergonomic desk chair, and closed her eyes. “You want to buy Captain Rogers a horse.”

“Yes. No. Sort of?”

Pepper put the phone on speaker and laid it on her desk so she had both hands free to massage her temples. “Clarify, please.”

“I already found a horse, the horse itself is present and correct, I just need you to arrange all the--” There was a brief pause which Pepper had no trouble filling from memory with one of Tony’s airy hand waves. “--other horsey stuff. Stabling, food, people to take care of it while Steve’s not there. Which will be most of the time, because horses are not ideally suited to Manhattan, or so I’ve been told. Repeatedly.”

“Tony, I’m not going to help you buy a horse just to prank Captain America.”

“It’s not a prank,” Tony said, managing to sound wounded, as though he hadn’t encased Steve’s shield in red, white, and blue Jello just last week. Tony had sent Pepper a picture of Thor licking the shield clean like it was the world’s most durable dessert plate. “It’s a birthday present.”   
  
Right, it was nearly July 4th. Pepper made a mental note to look through Tony’s art collection for a suitable piece to move into Steve’s rooms. It could be either her own gift to Steve or an apology for Tony’s; Pepper liked to keep her options open. “Steve asked for a horse?”

“Not in so many words,” Tony hedged. “But horses were mentioned. Horses, and Steve’s future ownership of one, were definitely discussed.”

“There are easier ways to play a joke on someone.”

“It’s not a joke!” Tony huffed a little. “Look, Steve needs a horse, so Steve is getting a horse, and I need you to ensure the horse’s health and general well-being. Steve can’t have a  _ sad horse_, Pepper, it would make him miserable.”

“Of course not,” Pepper sighed. “Have JARVIS send me the details, I’ll take care of it.”

“You’re the best, Pep.”

“I am,” Pepper agreed. “Will that be all, Mr. Stark?”

“That’ll be all, Ms. Potts.”

Pepper heard a gentle chime as the information arrived courtesy of JARVIS. A few seconds later, she was helplessly transfixed by a video of a glossy chestnut horse nibbling an apple core. The video was titled “Mr. Cheddar has a snack!” 

Pepper let out an involuntary “awww” that she was immediately glad no board members had overheard. She had just gotten to the point where they went pale if she smiled at them, and she’d hate to lose ground. 

Pepper cleared her throat, closed the video, and got down to business. Really, this wasn’t even in the top fifty weirdest things Tony had asked her to help with. Arranging stabling and upkeep for a horse was positively benign, by Tony’s usual standards, and Steve was a grown man. He had led raids on Nazi camps in World War II; surely he could handle an unexpected horse.

 

Pepper was used to Tony’s method of giving gifts. If it was a gag gift, he stuck around to gloat and tease, shit-eating grin firmly in place. If it was a sincere, heartfelt gift, he flung it at the recipient, deflected thank-yous like they were heat-seeking missiles, and disappeared as soon as possible. Pepper had never been sure if Tony didn’t trust himself to get gifts right, or if he didn’t trust the recipients to read his intended meaning, but either way, she had gotten used to his drive-by gifting style when the present actually mattered to him. She was curious to see which type Mr. Cheddar would turn out to be.

Steve’s birthday party was being held at one of Tony’s properties upstate, a vacation house he rarely used. It was secluded enough to get everyone away from the fireworks (fireworks and PTSD didn’t mix well), which was the explanation Tony gave Steve for the location, but it also had an attached stables. Mr. Cheddar had been moved there a week early so he would have time to relax into his new surroundings (and be spoiled rotten by the groundskeeper’s daughter). 

Tony, Steve, Pepper, and Rhodey all drove out from the city on July 3rd. Pepper was there to finalize the party arrangements in person. Tony had invited himself along and dragged Rhodey and Steve with him, ostensibly so they could all go fishing tomorrow morning before the other guests arrived. 

Tony had apparently been unaware of what fishing actually entailed. Rhodey and Steve broke the news as the limo pulled into the long driveway.   
  
“Four in the morning?” Tony repeated incredulously.

“Gotta beat the dawn if you want to fish,” Rhodey said implacably. “Otherwise you’re just sitting in a boat.”

“ _Four_ in the _morning_?”

“You’ve been awake at four in the morning five nights this week,” Steve said mildly.

“Staying up until four and waking up at four are two very different things, Rogers.” As soon as the limo came to a stop, Tony bolted out the door. “We’re going to discuss this, don’t think we won’t, I can think of some way to fish at a less unseemly hour, I could build--”

Rhodey crossed his arms. “It’s not fishing if you can’t see the stars over the water.”

Tony threw up his hands. “Fine, we’ll go fishing in the middle of the night if it’ll make you happy. The things I do for you, buttercup.”

“I appreciate it,” Rhodey said, full of mock sincerity.

“You should. Steve, come on, I want to show you something,” and that was all the warning Pepper got that Tony was going to give Steve his present a day early and in person. 

Watching Tony pick up speed as he ushered Steve down the path to the stables, Pepper was pretty sure the real reason they were here early was because Tony just couldn’t wait to give Steve his present, gag gift or not. She and Rhodey exchanged a glance and fell into step behind them, along for the show.

“So, it’s your birthday. Which you know. Or it will be, tomorrow, tonight, whatever. And I got you something. No, don’t give me that face, just--look.” Tony steered Steve towards the stableyard pen, where Mr. Cheddar was grazing on the tall summer grass. 

Steve turned the corner and froze. “Tony, what’s this?”

“A horse,” Tony said, the ‘duh’ implied by his tone. “Your horse, to be specific. Happy birthday.”

“A horse.”

“Yep.”

“You actually bought me a horse.”

“Yep.” Tony was leaning forward and bouncing on his toes a little, fists shoved deep into his pockets. Pepper could almost see the cartoon thought bubble forming above his head:  _ Do you like it?  _

Pepper had been wrong. This wasn’t a gag gift. She didn’t know what this was, but it was somehow important to Tony, and he was standing  _ right there_, waiting for Steve’s reaction. 

Steve had covered his mouth and chin with one hand while he considered the animal standing placidly in front of him, but when he finally dropped his arm he revealed a small but genuine smile. 

Pepper slowly let out the breath she had been holding.

“Tony,” Steve said, voice warm and thick with suppressed laughter, “what am I supposed to do with a horse?”

Tony shrugged like he hadn’t given it a moment’s thought. “Sit on it? I hear that’s what people do with horses. We’re smart guys, I’m sure we can figure something out.”

Pepper knew for a fact that Maria Stark, an equestrienne of no small repute, had sent her son to years of riding lessons as a child. She decided never to mention this to any of the Avengers.

Steve shook his head, but didn’t take his eyes off the roan. “What’s its name?”

“ _His _ name is Mr. Cheddar.” 

“Mr. Cheddar.” Steve sighed. “Of course.” 

Tony was radiating smug delight, unabashedly staring as Steve approached the horse. “Hello, there, Mr. Cheddar,” Steve said softly, extending a hand. “Oh, you’re beautiful, aren’t you?” 

Tony made clicking noises and Mr. Cheddar’s ears perked up. He ambled up to the side of the pen, neck stretched out curiously. When Steve cautiously patted Mr. Cheddar on the nose, his smile broadening as Mr. Cheddar lipped at his palm, Tony’s grin relaxed into something smaller, more affectionate. Something that wasn’t for show.

Pepper’s eyes narrowed. She recognized that look. 

“Holy shit,” Rhodey muttered, obviously seeing the same thing.

“Tony,” Pepper called. Tony’s head jerked up fast, like he’d forgotten he had an audience and was startled to see Rhodey and Pepper still standing there. Oh, this was serious. “James and I are going back to the house.”

“Great,” Tony said. His gaze skittered back to Steve, who was laughing as Mr. Cheddar nosed at his collar. “See you later.”

“Later,” Rhodey said drily. 

As soon as they were out of earshot, Rhodey turned to Pepper with an incredulous expression. “Did you see--”

“Yes.”

“Was that--”

“Yes.”

“Wow.”

“Yes,” Pepper agreed.

“I’m not sure what to do here. Do I give him the shovel talk?” Rhodey asked doubtfully. “I mean. He’s  _ Captain America_.”

Pepper didn’t quite understand why so many people, especially military men, tripped over themselves around Steve Rogers. He had seemed so lost, when she first met him; brittle around the edges in ways he tried to hide, tired and guarded unless there was something to push back against. It was no surprise that he and Tony had only started getting along after they started fighting side-by-side. 

With Pepper, Steve had always been scrupulously polite and more than a little shy. He had once escorted her, in Tony’s stead, to an evening gala at the Met. They had discussed art for three hours, arguing passionately about modernism and the limitations of abstraction, and at the end of the evening he was still calling her ma’am. She had wanted to ruffle his hair.

Pepper could handle Steve Rogers, but she was hoping she wouldn’t have to.

“Not just yet,” Pepper said. “We can’t risk spooking Tony. If it becomes necessary, I’ll do it myself.”

Rhodey nodded. “You’re scarier than me, anyway.”

“Yes,” Pepper said, serenely, and led the way back to the house.

  


**3: Bruce**

Bruce liked spending time in Tony’s workshop. 

His own lab was carefully ordered and precise; he had cultivated painstakingly methodical habits over years of working with volatile reactions that could trigger the Other Guy if he wasn’t careful. Lab accidents could so quickly become lab  _ emergencies _ that there was no room for error. Bruce’s lab was tight, controlled, and sterile.

Tony’s workshop was as loud, raucous, and messy as Tony himself. When Bruce thought that the clean white walls of his own lab were going to close in on him if he spent another second alone there with his own thoughts, he could always go visit Tony. Tony’s workshop was full of welcome distractions and company (even if Tony was locked into an engineering fugue, there were always the bots).

Lately, that company had included Steve. Bruce had gotten used to seeing him sitting on the workshop couch, drawing or reading a book, whenever Bruce stopped by to ask Tony a question or bring him a sandwich. Steve would look up at Bruce and smile, then go back to whatever he was doing unless Bruce wandered over to chat. His presence was quiet, unobtrusive. Easy to overlook.

Beyond his initial vague surprise, Bruce hadn’t really thought about what Steve’s presence in Tony’s lab meant until the caricatures appeared.

There were four of them, each on its own piece of paper, stuck to one wall with electrical tape. DUM-E, U, and Butterfingers each had their own portrait. Steve was a good artist, better than Bruce had known; he had captured a liveliness in each one, and a sense of distinct personality. DUM-E was in motion, carrying a blender half-filled with green smoothie tilting diagonally from the force of his acceleration. Butterfingers, of course, was in the middle of dropping a ball. Steve had caught U in mid-sigh, somehow. Bruce looked at the drawing for five minutes and still wasn’t sure how he’d managed it.

The fourth drawing was of Tony. He was angled away from the viewer, mouth open in speech as he addressed tiny versions of all three bots in the background of the workshop. Tony’s face was full of stern exasperation, the portrait of a man driven to distraction. He always talked to his bots like that, as though words of affection were rationed and Tony had to hoard his stockpile. You had to really know Tony to see the pride and fondness that underpinned that facade. 

Steve had seen it. Steve had  _ drawn _ it. There was a tiny curl to Tony’s lip, a looseness to the line of his shoulders, an exaggerated tilt to his head, that gave away how much the bluster was for show. Steve had cut to the heart of Tony and put it down on paper.

This was a love note in caricature.

It made Bruce nervous.

Bruce liked Steve. Most people looked at Bruce and saw the monster. Maybe, if they spent enough time around him, they’d start to see Bruce in there, too. Steve looked at Bruce and knew the monster was there, but he always saw Bruce first. There were some days even Bruce couldn’t do that. 

He figured Steve knew something himself about having insides that didn’t match his outsides. Even with all his serum-enhanced grace, Steve still knocked his elbows against doorways or bumped his head on cabinet doors, because Steve still forgot sometimes that he wasn’t five-foot nothing. Steve might look like he belonged on a GQ cover now, but Steve had grown up as a scrawny kid who couldn’t get a date. He must still feel that way, sometimes, even if it was invisible from the outside.

Tony wasn’t cruel, but he could be careless with people he thought could take it, and at first glance, Steve seemed like someone who could take anything Tony could dish out. Thanks to his father, Tony had grown up with Captain America™, the supposed model of human perfection. Invincible. Invulnerable. A safe target.

Bruce knew better. He looked at the drawings, the insight and humor and understanding in them, and couldn’t help but know.

Bruce didn’t say anything, to Tony or anyone else. It wasn’t any of his business. Besides, he didn’t exactly have great relationship advice to offer. His own attempts at romance were literal disasters, with the rubble to prove it. He watched, and he worried, and he tried not think about it.

 

“Respect the process,” Tony said, bearing down hard with a socket wrench. “That’s all I’m saying. AIM goons want to call themselves scientists, fine, but then look at their procedures! No documentation. Just a bunch of yellow canisters--do they even know paint comes in other colors, has anyone told them?--sitting in a warehouse with no indication of what might be inside them. I ask you, is that scientific?”

“JARVIS, note the date and time,” Bruce said mildly. He was standing on the far side of the lab, a safe distance away in case Tony set something off that the Other Guy might take objection to. “Tony is ranting about the importance of the scientific process and proper documentation.”

“Noted, Doctor Banner.”

“Sass all you like, Brucie-bear, but at least when I cook up something bizarre and/or hazardous, I slap a label on it. Is that too much to--”

It happened very fast. The canister let out a sudden wheezing groan. Tony shouted, “Bruce, down!” and ducked behind his workbench. “Mark sixteen, guard--”

The canister exploded in a spray of green foam.

The spray didn’t travel far, fortunately. When Bruce picked his head up cautiously, he saw that most of the foam had gone towards the far wall, shooting from a crack in the container facing that direction. One of Tony’s Iron Man suits had materialized in front of the spray, standing between the canister and the wall.

The wall with Steve’s drawings on it.

“Well, that’s anti-climactic.” Tony popped up from behind the bench and stalked towards the center of the mess, nimbly side-stepping the new holes eaten into the floor. “All that fuss, and it’s just a garden-variety corrosive. I was hoping for something fun.”   
  
“Tony,” Bruce said. “Your suit.”

The Iron Man suit had taken the brunt of the spray. The metal was scarred and pitted, and when Tony nudged a leg with his toe the whole suit went down, collapsing with a clatter to the workshop floor.

“Yeah, that’s the problem with a work-in-progress model.” Tony poked the chestplate with his wrench, and winced as it crumbled under the slight pressure. “The anti-corrosive coating hadn’t been put on yet. That shiny red paint job isn’t just a fashion statement, you know, it’s there to guard against your standard acid-spitting space lizards and all their friendly, flesh-eating associates.” 

“Can you fix it?”

“I can fabricate a new one,” Tony said dismissively. “I have all the designs, it’ll just take a few weeks to get the parts back together.”

Bruce stared. Tony didn’t dote on the suits like they were his bots, exactly--they were designed for battle, so Tony expected them to get damaged and occasionally destroyed--but losing one always put him in a bad mood. They were his creations, and Tony looked after his creations.

Now his latest model was a corroded husk on the floor, and Tony wasn’t even swearing. Instead, he was looking anxiously at the drawings on the wall, checking to make sure they hadn’t caught any stray acid droplets. 

Bruce watched Tony absently smooth down the tape on all the corners, and felt a little tendril of hope uncurl in his chest.

The next time Bruce stopped by the lab, he saw that Steve’s cartoons were behind a two-inch thick transparent cover bolted to the wall. Bruce knew without needing to ask that whatever the cover was made out of, it would be impervious to fire, water, acid, minor-to-major explosions, and anything else Tony’s considerable ingenuity could protect against. 

It was a love note in high-tech reinforced polymer.

Bruce didn’t say anything about that, either. It was still none of his business. But he felt that tiny knot of anxiety he had carried since he first saw the drawings relax. 

Whatever Tony and Steve were doing, they were in it together.

  


**4: Sam**

“You need a what?”

“A costume. For, I think it’s called cosplay?”

“Cosplay,” Sam repeated. He and Steve were jogging through Central Park. Steve had just lapped him for a fourth time before slowing to match his pace, and the bastard didn’t even have the decency to sound winded. “As what?”

“You ever see the Pride and Prejudice movie, the really long one?”

“Dude. I have three sisters. It was required viewing.”

“I need a Mr. Darcy outfit.”

Sam slowed to a walk, holding one hand up in a time-out gesture until he caught his breath enough to form full sentences. “You’re going to cosplay as Mr. Darcy? The Colin Firth, look-how-wet-and-clinging-my-shirt-is Mr. Darcy?”

Steve looked down and shuffled his feet. It was amazing to watch over six feet of pure muscle somehow telegraph  _ bashful_. “Yeah. Tony’s birthday is coming up, and, well. It’s sort of an inside joke.”

“Like a prank?”

“Yeah, something like that.” Sam watched, fascinated, as Steve’s cheeks got redder and redder. “I don’t know where to get costumes like that. JARVIS would know, but I want it to be a surprise, and I think Tony has an auto-alert for anything that might involve his birthday.”

“I got you,” Sam promised. “I’ll just ask my sisters. They’ll get you the best damn Mr. Darcy outfit the world has ever seen if you let them take selfies with you while you’re wearing it.”

“I’ll pay for the supplies, of course, and for their time.”

Sam knew for a fact his sisters would pay good money just to _see_ Captain America wearing skin-tight breeches and a translucent linen shirt. There was no way they’d take his money for this, but Sam kept that to himself. Steve would just dig his heels in and stick his jaw out, and Sam was not going to get in the middle of a who’s-more-stubborn contest between his little sisters and Steve fucking Rogers, thank you very much. 

“Mmm,” he said neutrally. “When do you need the costume?”

“Tony’s birthday’s in a month, so three weeks from now would be good. That way I can practice with Mr. Cheddar. I need to make sure the costume works for riding.”

Sam’s mouth shaped the words ‘Mr. Cheddar’ a couple times before he made the connection with riding. “That’s the horse Tony gave you?”

“Yeah. I’ve been taking riding lessons. I’m not very good yet, but it should be enough to get me to the picnic.”

“The picnic,” Sam echoed. He had officially lost track of this conversation. 

“Unless the weather’s bad.” Steve’s forehead creased with concern. “I should have a secondary lunch site to fall back to if it’s raining.”

“Uh-huh.” 

Steve nodded decisively. “Thanks for your help, Sam.”

“Anytime, man.” 

Steve surged ahead of him, resuming his normal pace. Sam watched Steve’s back vanish into the distance and wondered what the hell had just happened. 

 

Sam had moved to New York after the invasion. Between the vets already in the city who had just lived through a whole new battle, this one on home turf, and the massive National Guard presence on the clean-up crews, there was a dire need for PTSD counselors who had worked with soldiers, and Sam didn’t have any trouble finding work. 

He had first seen Captain America at the clean-up sites, out of uniform but unmistakeable as he pried up huge chunks of concrete with his bare hands. Their paths had crossed occasionally when Sam did a volunteer shift with a client, enough that they exchanged hellos in passing. 

Sam hadn’t met  _ Steve Rogers _ until the snarky motherfucker had lapped him over and over during one of Sam’s morning runs through Central Park, calling “On your left!” each time. Sam had finally snapped around lap fifty and tackled him into the grass. It was the beginning of the most thrilling, unexpected, and straight-up  _ bizarre _ friendship of Sam’s life. 

The latest bizarre iteration of which, apparently, was Sam introducing Steve to his sisters so they could dress him up like a regency romance hero. 

“Should I have brought them something?” Steve fretted. They were trudging up the stairs to Sarah’s fifth-floor walkup, where all three of Sam’s sisters were waiting.  _ Lying in wait_, Sam’s mind supplied. He had only meant to bring Sadie into this, but as soon as Sarah and Sasha had heard that Sadie was going to meet  _ Captain America_, they had insisted on joining in. “Flowers, maybe?”

“Don’t you dare,” Sam warned. “You bring my baby sisters flowers and my mother will be planning your wedding as soon as she hears about it.”

“Right.” 

“It’ll be fine, Steve. Sarah doesn’t expect a housewarming gift. It’s the other two you have to worry about.”

“What?”

Sam ignored the question and knocked on the door. Sasha yanked it open before his fist could land twice.

“Oh my God, you actually brought him!” she said brightly. She pulled Sam in for a quick hug before wrapping her arms around Steve’s waist and clinging like a limpet. His hands went up in a tiny aborted flail before tentatively settling on her shoulders. 

“Steve, this is Sasha.”

“Hello,” Steve said helplessly. Sasha was still squeezing him, now making little contented humming noises. Sam buried his face in his hands.

“Hi, Steve, I’m Sarah.” Sam’s oldest, wisest,  _ most normal _ sibling appeared in the doorway and smiled at Steve. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“The pleasure’s all mine, ma’am.”

“Is that him?” Sadie called from inside the apartment. She ducked under Sarah’s arm a moment later and studied Steve with cool professionalism. “Sasha, get off him, you’ll scare him away and I will  _ die _ if I miss this opportunity. I will die and haunt you  _ forever_. I’m Sadie,” she added, as an afterthought.

Steve, adorably, shook her hand. He looked sideways at Sam. “Do your names all start with--”

“Our parents are sadists,” Sadie interrupted. She didn’t let go of Steve’s hand, tugging him forward instead. “Come on, we have work to do.”

Sam backed slowly down the hallway. “I’ll go grab some dinner, be back in a few.”

Steve sent him a panicked look over his shoulder as he was towed into the apartment. Sam reminded him, via a raised eyebrow, that he had asked for this. In a life-or-death crisis, Sam would have Steve’s back every time, but he drew the line at being part of Steve’s Mr. Darcy makeover montage. 

 

A couple hours later, Sam opened the apartment door and poked a cautious head in. No shouting. No giggling. Probably safe to enter.

“I brought tacos,” he called, dumping the take-out bags in the kitchen.

Steve and his sisters were sitting in the living room, all crammed onto one couch. They were staring intently at Sarah’s TV, which was playing a very familiar clip.

Sam rested his elbows on the back of the couch, tugging Sadie’s ear from big-brother habit. “Are you just re-watching the pond scene over and over again?”

“It’s research,” Sarah informed him.

“Uh-huh,” Sam said. “Research for what?”

Sadie rolled her eyes. “Getting into character. Cosplay isn’t just about the  _ clothes_. You have to build the whole persona.”

“We should watch it a few more times,” Sasha told Steve authoritatively. “To make sure you get it right.”

Steve nodded and leaned forward, the picture of attentive concentration. He was half-buried under loose fabric and someone had left a measuring tape hanging over his right shoulder. Sam decided not to ask any questions.

Colin Firth emerged, dripping, from the pond. His shirt clung limply to his chiseled pecs. Someone sighed, dreamily. Sam couldn’t swear it wasn’t him.

_ Yeah, okay_, Sam thought. There were worse ways to spend an afternoon. “Who wants popcorn?” 

 

“Well?” Steve asked, posture ramrod straight. He drew up his chin like Sam was a drill sergeant doing an inspection.

They were back at the same vacation house where Steve’s birthday party had been that summer. It was Tony’s birthday this time, and Steve was preparing to deploy his surprise picnic with all the exacting orchestration he applied to mission plans. Steve got so  _ military  _ when he was nervous. If Tony had followed the directions on the cartoon map Steve had left outside his door that morning, he would be waiting at the rendezvous point (a patch of meadow near a small pond) when Steve rode in on horseback, resplendent in his Mr. Darcy costume and toting a huge picnic basket. 

Steve had dragged Sam down to the stables with him at the last minute for the cosplay equivalent of a pre-battle equipment check. It was completely unnecessary--Sam’s sisters had outdone themselves, and it wasn’t like Sam was going to notice any details they wouldn’t have already thought of--but Steve seemed anxious enough to need the extra reassurance.

“How do I look?” Steve smoothed the folds of his cravat for the seventh time. “Does it look stupid?”

Sam let his eyes run over Steve from head to toe and back up again, taking in his gleaming thigh-high leather boots, skin-tight breeches, crisp white shirt and cravat, and a riding jacket that barely accommodated his ridiculous shoulders. Just looking was enough to move Sam up a notch on the Kinsey scale. “Stupid isn’t the word I would use.”

Steve blew out a hard breath. “I hope he likes it.” His fingers crept towards his cravat again and Sam slapped them away.

“You’re fussing, man. Stop fussing.”

“Right.” Steve moved his hands behind his back, standing at Regency parade rest. It stretched his breeches over his groin a little more tightly, and Sam averted his eyes before he blushed like a damn schoolgirl. “Is my hair straight?”

“Your hair is fine. What are you, getting ready for prom? You’re giving me flashbacks to high school.”

“Well, I never went to prom,” Steve said, deadpan. “Gotta make up for lost time.”

It had become abundantly clear that this wasn’t an inside joke. This was a  _ date_. An adorable, elaborate date that Steve was attending in  _ costume_. A date with a sunny picnic in a flower-dappled meadow that Steve was arriving at via  _ horseback_. It was the most romantic fucking thing Sam had ever seen. 

Steve Rogers was in love with Tony Stark. Steve Rogers was in so much trouble.

Or maybe not, since Tony had given Steve the damn horse in the first place. It was entirely possible Tony was as gone on Steve as Steve was on Tony. (They were certainly equally terrible at keeping their hands to themselves--Sam had walked into the communal kitchen at an inopportune moment last month and Steve hadn’t been able to look him in the eyes without blushing for  _ days_.)

Either way, Steve Rogers was a grown-ass man, and under the nervous jitters, he was practically glowing with excitement. Whatever their relationship was, it looked like it was good for him.

“He’ll love it,” Sam said firmly. He picked a stray hair off Steve’s shoulder and gave him a push towards Mr. Cheddar. “Get going, don’t keep your boy waiting.”

Steve flashed Sam one of his rare grins and swung into the saddle. “Sir, yes, sir.”

“Smartass!” Sam yelled after him.

 

After he got back to the vacation house, Sam called Natasha and said, without preamble, “Do I need to give Stark the shovel talk?” 

“The situation is being monitored,” Natasha said briskly. “We’ll call you in if things go south.”

“Got it.” 

The line clicked as Natasha hung up. 

Sam texted Steve next.  _ I’m really happy for you. Let me know if you ever want to talk. _

Steve was a private guy, but that didn’t mean he’d never want to talk to a friend about his relationship. Didn’t mean he wanted Sam prying, either. The text was a compromise between what Sam wanted to offer and what Steve was willing to accept.

Forty minutes later, his phone buzzed.  _ Thanks, Sam. _

Good enough for now.

His phone buzzed again, this time with an image. It was a shot of Steve that Tony must have taken. The cravat and jacket were nowhere in sight; Steve was grinning at the camera and wringing water out of his soaked shirt. Sam had never seen him look so happy.

“Your  _ life_, man,” Sam told the picture, and set it as Steve’s contact icon.

  


**5: Steve**

“Captain Rogers!”

Steve suppressed a sigh as more heads and cameras, alerted by the first reporter’s shout, turned. So much for stealth. He slowed down and put on one of his showman’s smiles.

He had known better than to leave the tower today, he really had. The Supreme Court decision that morning legalizing same-sex marriage nationwide had plunged New York into cheerful chaos. Tony had set the Tower’s A to flash rainbow colors for the day, and a small knot of press had been loitering outside the tower ever since, hoping to snag a comment from one of the Avengers. History was being made, and every reporter in the tri-state area was out looking for a fresh angle to cover, a story that would become part of how this moment was defined for future generations.

Steve knew from personal experience that the hardest historical changes to learn about weren’t the milestones (desegregation, the moon landing, Hiroshima). It was the everyday background noise, changes that happened so gradually nobody thought to mark them. (Everything was wrapped in plastic. Bananas and tomatoes and strawberries tasted completely different. New York didn’t have a constant haze of smog softening the skyscrapers’ edges. Steve could have gone on, but he tried to keep his Old Man Yells At Cloud rants, as Tony called them, to a minimum.)

Romantic relationships had changed a lot since Steve was a kid, and some of those changes were big enough to make the history books (no-fault divorce!), but most of them weren’t. Steve could read about the decriminalization of sodomy all he liked, but there was no such thing as a “Relationship Cues for People Culturally Behind Seven Decades” guide that Steve could consult, no matter how useful it would have been at the beginning to figure out what was going on between him and Tony. 

 

From the very first time they’d had sex, Steve had known he and Tony were  _ something_. He hadn’t been imagining the way Tony tracked him when he was in the room, regardless of who else was there. He’d known Tony hadn’t slept with anyone else since they had first met (Tony had mentioned this, carefully off-hand, while they were sparring, and Steve had just as casually confirmed that he hadn’t either, and neither had mentioned it since). Steve had been well aware of the way his own pulse kicked up in a way that had nothing to do with sex (okay, in a way that didn’t  _ always _ have something to do with sex) when he’d seen Tony cackling with glee as he crushed Clint at Mario Kart, or falling asleep on his workshop bench with a screwdriver clutched in one hand like a teddy bear, or eating pizza from the wrong end while making defiant eye contact with Steve the whole time. 

(Tony ate pizza starting with the crusts and working towards the tip. Steve had been  _ positive _ that Tony did it just to provoke Steve’s Brooklyn-inflected rant on proper pizza etiquette until Rhodey confirmed that Tony had been a “backwards pizza-eating freak, Jesus God, why” since they’d both been at MIT).

Steve wasn’t a virgin, he wasn’t a coward, and he wasn’t totally oblivious, despite what Natasha said. He had known he and Tony were something. He just hadn’t known what. 

Which was why, early on, Steve had consulted with a pair of invested experts over coffee. 

“Do you think Tony and I are in a relationships? A romantic one, I mean.”

Natasha had actually rolled her eyes at him. Pepper had been too polite to do the same thing, but Steve had been able to tell she was tempted to.

“Yes, Steve,” Pepper had said instead. “You are definitely in a relationship with Tony, and whether or not he’d say it, he’s in one with you. You aren’t imagining this and it’s not one-sided.”

Steve had blown out a long breath. “That’s good to hear.” He had been pretty sure, but Pepper’s confirmation made him feel instantly relieved. 

“With anyone else, I would tell you to have a straightforward conversation about your wants and expectations,” Pepper had said. “But this is Tony. If you try to sit him down for a serious relationship talk, he’ll panic, call the suit, and fly to Australia. You won’t see him for a month.”

“That’s not conjecture, that’s a fact,” Natasha had added. “It’s happened before. Multiple times.”

“If it’s bothering you, you’ll have to talk about it with him. Silently stewing about it won’t help anyone. But if you don’t mind the current status quo, my advice?” Pepper had pushed her empty cappuccino cup to the side and given him a direct look. “Be patient. He’ll come around eventually, he just has a lot to work through first.”

“And if you do need to have The Talk, sit on him first,” Natasha had advised. “Or distract him. Give him a blow--”

“Thanks, Natasha, that’s very helpful,” Steve had interrupted, feeling his cheeks go pink. He had scooped up all their dishes and beaten a hasty retreat to the busing station to avoid Natasha’s knowing smirk.

 

As Steve constantly wanted to remind people, gay sex had been around in the ‘40s. But while it was true that queerness wasn’t a modern invention, Steve was still used to the days when it was the love that dared not speak its name. Things were different now, but it still felt normal to keep his private life private, even more so now that Captain America™’s life was headline news. He was done being a dancing monkey, and his personal affairs weren’t anyone else’s business.

Steve didn’t have to name something to value it. He would never take the warmth Tony shared with him for granted. Even after he came out of the ice, he had been frozen; Tony had woken him up, set him ablaze, guided him out of the dark. 

Steve knew what they were to each other, and Tony knew, and that was enough.

Until, suddenly, it wasn’t.

Today, when half the country was celebrating, it felt a little--confining. Steve had watched the news break and been overcome with the sense that history was being made. He’d missed so much history already, while he was locked in the ice. He’d be damned if more of it was going to pass him by when it was close enough to touch.

Steve hadn’t been able to resist leaving the Tower and jogging around the neighborhood. He had passed dozens of impromptu street parties, full of laughter and rainbow flags and music. It was a joy to see, but it had also made him feel like a spectator, like he was watching the victory celebration for a battle he hadn’t fought in. That uneasy feeling had only grown stronger as he headed back towards the Tower, lost in his own thoughts. 

Maybe that was why he hadn’t seen the reporters until they had spotted him and it was too late to backtrack. 

 

“Captain Rogers!” the closest reporter called. She shoved a microphone towards his face, but unlike some of the others, didn’t actually block his path. “Do you have a stance on the Supreme Court decision legalizing same-sex marriage?”

Steve hadn’t planned to take questions, but this, at least, was an opportunity to set the record straight. Some of the people protesting the decision had put his shield on their signs--none of the official organizations, which all knew better by now (orgs that used the Captain America logo or name without prior approval drew the Wrath of Potts, which wasn’t a mistake anyone made twice), but individual people who still thought of Captain America as a mascot for patriotism and apple pie.

Steve wasn’t particularly sorry to disappoint them. Going on record now would be a quick way to separate the beliefs of Steve Rogers, the man, from what people imagined were the beliefs of Captain America, the propaganda icon from a bygone era.

“I’m all for it,” Steve said, keeping his voice confident and matter-of-fact.

He could have left it at that. It was enough to make his official stance known and deny the anti-marriage protesters the illusion of his support. It was all the media was entitled to. 

But he had read a slogan recently in a book about the Civil Rights movement, part of his self-assigned reading list to catch up on the social changes since his era: the personal is the political. It had been rattling around his head as he’d watched couple after couple, smiling or crying or both, line up outside county courthouses and pose for the news cameras with their marriage licenses. It had come back, stronger, while he jogged through the neighborhood, watching others celebrate and feeling proud and distant at the same time.  _ The personal is the political. _

“This one’s personal,” he added.

The other reporters quieted suddenly. Cameras and mics swung further in, and Steve had to remind himself they weren’t projectiles and he would have to apologize if he punched them. 

“How is it personal, Captain Rogers?” the reporter asked. She looked like Christmas had come early.

Tony was fantastic at deflecting intrusive questions, using charm or sarcasm to turn them aside so smoothly it was impossible to tell what he was really thinking. Steve had always been terrible at it. He either answered the question, or ignored it, or told the reporter it was none of their business, although Pepper had been trying to train him out of the last one--apparently it made it seem like he was hiding something.

But Steve didn’t want to ignore this question. If he dodged it, he  _ would _ be hiding something, something he wasn’t ashamed of. Something he was proud of, something he delighted in, something he was thankful for every day. 

There was no part of Steve that could deny Tony, not even tacitly.

This was not how he had imagined starting this conversation, but ultimately, Steve said the only thing he could bear to say. 

“It’s personal because this decision means that in any state in the country, my partner and I could get married. Excuse me,” he added, and leapt over a bike rack to make a quick escape. 

The scrum of reporters behind him descended into anarchy, their shouted questions blending into a roar of white noise. Flashbulbs chased him down the street, temporarily blinding. The most optimistic reporters actually ran after him, but Steve wasn’t stopping for anything.

Captain America coming out on live television was going to be breaking news, which meant a countdown clock had just started. Tony was going to see it, and if Steve wasn’t there to talk him down before he freaked out, he would have to  _ chase  _ Tony down, first. 

Steve sprinted for the private Tower entrance at inhuman speed, dragging reporters in his wake like the tail of a comet, and even his anxiety about the long-overdue relationship talk he had just kicked off in the most dramatic way possible couldn’t keep the grin from his face. 

Same-sex marriage was legal everywhere across the country. He had outed himself on live television. He had told the whole world he was in a relationship.

Now he just had to tell his boyfriend. 

It would probably be the hardest part, but Steve had always liked a challenge. He vaulted over a car and ran to Tony as fast as his legs could carry him.

  


**+1: Tony**

Tony was watching the CNN clip for the seventh time when Steve crashed through the workshop doors, skidding several feet across the floor with the force of his momentum. It had only been four minutes since the first broadcast. Steve must have run the whole way.

“You broke the internet,” Tony said, without turning around. “Twitter crashed. Facebook crashed. Tumblr’s servers are probably on fire.”

“Tony--”

“No,” Tony said. He turned to look at Steve, who was standing in front of the doors with that steady, easier-to-move-mountains air he always got when he was going to be stubborn as fuck about something. 

Tony’s ears were ringing and he was edging closer to a panic attack than he’d come in months. They couldn’t be dating, they couldn’t be a couple, not  _ really  _ a couple, because if they were Tony would fuck it up and he couldn’t risk that this time, couldn’t lose Steve. “Steve, it’s not--I don’t do relationships, not real, official relationships. I just screw those up.”

“We’re  _ in _ a real relationship.” Steve took one step closer. “We have been for months. You haven’t screwed it up, and you’re not going to.” 

Tony just shook his head. “I’m terrible at planning dates, I don’t remember birthdays or anniversaries--”

“We’ve had plenty of dates,” Steve cut in. “You flew me to the Louvre last weekend, remember? We went to a charity gala on Tuesday and out for burgers on Thursday. That’s three dates in the last week. And you did remember my birthday. You gave me a pony.”

“Stallion,” Tony corrected automatically, then realized he was getting side-tracked. “Not the point. I spend days locked in my lab, I’m a moody drunk--”

“You’ve been drinking less. I like being in your lab while you’re working. I’m  _ happy _ with you.” Steve stepped forward again and took Tony’s hand, and Tony couldn’t bring himself to pull it away. “You challenge me when I need it and you always have my back. You fulfill my emotional, social, and sexual needs--”

“You’ve been spending too much time with Wilson--” 

“You’re good to me. You’re good  _ for _ me.” Steve brought Tony’s hand to his lips and kissed the palm. “You, Tony Stark, are a good boyfriend.”

Tony was actually speechless. It was unprecedented. There were betting pools about what it would take to put Tony Stark at a loss for words, he had seen the sign-up sheets on SHIELD bulletin boards, and he wondered if some lucky bastard had put down “DECLARATION OF RELATIONSHIP COMPETENCE” and just won big, except who would take a sucker’s bet like that? 

Steve didn’t try to take it back or laugh like it was a joke. He just rubbed his thumb over Tony’s knuckles and waited until Tony stopped gawking at him. 

“I have literally never heard those words in that order,” he said finally. “Are you sure you’re not concussed?”

Steve looked at the ceiling. “JARVIS, am I concussed?”

“No, Sir. All medical scans indicate you are, as usual, at the pinnacle of physical health.”

Tony’s eyes narrowed. “JARVIS, since when do you call Steve Sir?”

“Naturally I assumed Sir’s preferred form of respectful address applied to Sir’s domestic partner. Sir.”

For an entity that took pride in being respectful, JARVIS sure could be a mouthy little shit sometimes.

“So, what are you saying?” Tony could make himself ask the question as long as Steve was still holding his hand, radiating warmth from just a foot away, solid and steadfast as granite. “We’re--boyfriends? I’m at least a decade too old to be someone’s boyfriend, Steve.”

“The semantics aren’t the point, Tony.” Steve was laughing at him with a perfectly straight face. It was one of his many unfairly adorable talents.

“I love you,” Tony blurted, because his only two relationship settings were absolute denial or total overcommitment, apparently, and if this was going to blow up in his face it might as well happen as fast as possible, before he dared to believe it was real.

“I love you, too,” Steve said calmly. He tightened his grip on Tony’s hand. “No panicking.”

“No?”

“No running away to Australia.”

“Those were completely legitimate business trips--”

“Tony.”

“Fine.” And just because he couldn’t quite believe he had said it, much less that Steve had said it back, he said it again. “I love you.”

Steve leaned in and kissed him, which Tony had sort of expected. He wasn’t really experienced with declarations of love, but he knew the genre conventions, and Steve was a traditionalist. 

What he didn’t expect was how  _ filthy  _ the kiss would be, full of liquid heat and heavy with promise. 

“I love you,” Steve growled.

_ Holy shit_. Those words, in Steve’s bedroom voice, were--were just  _ unfair_. “Is this a positive reinforcement thing? I confess my feelings, I get sex kisses?”

“Sure,” Steve murmured, clearly distracted. He nosed into the hair behind Tony’s temple, kissing the shell of his ear, and Tony’s whole body shivered. 

“Yeah, okay, I can work with this,” Tony announced, and felt Steve’s answering smile. “Pants off, now, chop chop.”

Steve didn’t drop his pants, more’s the pity, but he did crowd Tony up against his workbench, nipping at his jaw just hard enough to sting, so of course Tony had to slide both hands underneath Steve’s ridiculous lumberjack flannel and stroke Steve’s nipples until his eyes went glassy. Fair’s fair.

“Love you,” Tony said, and that was all it took to make Steve throw his head back and moan.

“Love you.” Steve sank to his knees and ran hot hands up Tony’s thighs.

Tony gathered up just enough self-awareness to gasp, “JARVIS, privacy mode,” so JARVIS would black out the workshop’s glass walls before Steve got his pants open and his higher brain functions went offline.

It turned out that exchanging “love you”s acted as an erotic feedback loop, a delightful discovery that Tony was going to enjoy exploring  _ very  _ thoroughly (for science!). After what would have been an embarrassingly short time later, if Tony had been capable of feeling embarrassment about superlative orgasms, they were lying panting and boneless (as opposed to boning and pantless, like they had been five minutes prior) on the workshop couch. 

“So,” Tony said, squinting at the sock flung over Steve’s bare shoulder. It was a red and gold Gryffindor sock, and he couldn’t remember if it was his or Steve’s. “Who figured it out first, d’you think?” 

Steve considered. “Sam?” 

“Or maybe Pepper? No, wait--” 

“Natasha,” they chorused together, and groaned.

“It’s not fair,” Tony complained. “She has that freaky spy clairvoyance thing.”

Steve grunted agreement and rolled his head onto Tony’s chest. His knees were hooked over the arm of the couch so his torso would fit, and Tony made a mental note to get a longer couch. Or to just put a bed in the workshop, although that might put a real dent in his productivity, given how often Steve was down here sketching, all relaxed and approachable. The couch was enough temptation already.

“When’s our anniversary?” Tony ran dextrous fingers through Steve’s hair, smoothing out the disheveled patches. 

“Hmm. Remember that time in the wrestling gym?”

“Fondly and frequently.”

“That’s the first night you stayed over.” Steve snuggled deeper into Tony’s armpit, and Tony squirmed at the brief tickle. “How long ago was that?”

“JARVIS?”

“Eleven months ago, Sirs.”

“Wow,” Steve mumbled. “Din’ realize it’d been that long.”

“Me either.” Eleven months. That was longer than any relationship Tony had ever had, by a good...nine months. 

Tony pressed his lips to the crown of Steve’s head, listened to the familiar rhythm of his breathing even out as he fell asleep, and let himself believe, bone deep, that Steve wasn’t going anywhere.

The last hazy thought that passed Tony’s mind before he drifted off himself was:  _ Eleven months. Huh. _

_ That’s probably long enough to get married. _

**Author's Note:**

> This series is set before the events of CA:TWS, but I dragged Sam in early because I wanted one character who actually knows how to talk about feelings to be a foil for everyone else, and because the idea of his sisters giving Steve a “Cosplay 101 - Being Mr. Darcy” seminar was too fun to abandon. 
> 
> Part three is in the works and will be coming soon! It takes place the day immediately after this one ends. You can probably guess what happens. In keeping with this marshmallow fluff-pile of a series, it will be very silly.


End file.
